


counterfeit

by The-Immortal-Moon (LunaKat)



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 08:47:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16513088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaKat/pseuds/The-Immortal-Moon
Summary: “Before the transmutation—”Like someone flipped a switch, Ed looks up sharply, eyes widening. “Al—”“—did I get sick?”





	counterfeit

When he first comes to in his metal body, the first thing he lays eyes upon is his brother’s bloody form.

“Al,” Brother gasps as Al stirs to life. There is a makeshift binding around the stump where memory says a leg should be, but none around the open wound on the shoulder that weeps profuse crimson. Heedless, he crawls on his belly, eyes wild and desperate and burning hauntingly bright against the darkness. “Al. _Alphonse_.”

Al cannot smell the heavy scent of copper, nor feel the liquid warmth against nonexistent skin, but the vivid scarlet color is enough to send alarm through his being. He scoops up his brother’s tiny body—tiny compared to how large his numb, inert hands are—and rises shakily to his feet. “J-Just— Just hold on— I’ll—I’ll get _help_ —”

The Rockbells. They live next door, don’t they? It’s hard to remember. Everything is all hazy and muddled beneath the panic of seeing his brother in this state.

“Alphonse.” Brother writhes in Al’s hand. He presses his cheek against cold metal, sniffling—from pain or something else, Al is unsure—and wraps his remaining arm around the steel gauntlet, clinging to it as desperately as a sinner to the prospect of salvation. “Alphonse. _Alphonse_.”

The more he ponders it, the more Al finds himself certain that the Rockbells will help, and uncertain why he questioned that to begin with. His destination set, Al leaps to his feet and races to the door, because there is only so much blood in the human body and so much time before it all leaks out.

He doesn’t so much as glance at the twisted thing inside the chalk circle.

* * *

“Al?”

There is a low creak, a scrape of metal, as he raises the helmet he calls a head. Standing in the hallway, shoulders tense and wrought with trepidation, is the girl from before, twisting her fingers nervously. Her long flaxen hair is free of its earlier ponytail, dripping unrestrained down her shoulders. Her name is slow to come, but he can feel his memory roiling in an attempt to somehow shake the information loose, hoping it will fall in his lap.

He catches a glimpse of her blue eyes, and they are so familiar it _aches_.

It isn’t until she comes to a stop in front of him that remembrance finally hits with the force of a wrench to the head. Laughter on the hills, bickered arguments over the dinner table, walking to and from school every day.

“Winry.” Embarrassment thrums in him for not remembering his friend sooner.

Wordlessly, she nods, the settles down next to him. Her knees are brought up to her chest and her arms thrown around them in a quivering embrace. There is a hollow sort of look in her eyes as she stares aimlessly at the wall. Her hands are pale, a faint tremor plaguing her fingers. She and her grandmother had to operate on Brother’s stumps, sew them up before all the blood leaked out.

It must have been unnerving, to see such a close friend in that state.

It must be unnerving for her to see _him_  in this state.

Freshly embarrassed—though not entirely sure _why_ —he looks down at his enormous feet. “Um. How’s Brother?”

“Stable,” she says. He can feel her gaze roaming his silhouette and wishes he could shrink in on himself, curl up in fetal position. “What about you?”

Funny. He hadn’t even thought to worry about himself. Looking at his hands, it occurs to Al that he should feel a sense of mourning, being trapped in a body that isn’t his. He should, but... “Kind of out of it, honestly. I still don’t remember a lot of what happened. Everything’s all... muddled.”

“...oh.”

Strange, how one syllable can pack so much sympathy. It annoys him, somehow, to hear it.

Al looks at the hallway, at the wallpaper that should be familiar—he has vague recollections of coming to this house quite frequently for dinner—and wonders why it doesn’t resonate with him as strongly as it should.

* * *

“We tried to bring back our mother,” Brother tells the colonel.

 _We tried to bring back our mother_ , sounds right enough to Al. He remembers long hours in the study, laboring over equations and painstaking calculations. Circles, lattices, complex mathematics. Sitting in front of a grave, growing cold as the sun set.

Yes, that sounds right. He doesn’t question it.

* * *

Brother promises to get Al his body back. His eyes have the same glowing intensity as they did before, burning in the darkness like brimstone set aflame.

For some reason, Al looks away, vaguely aware of a prickle in his soul.

* * *

When most people ask him to describe Ed in one word, they seem to expect his answer to be something like “temperamental” or “reckless” or “stubborn”.

They always seem surprised when he answers with a flat “overprotective”.

“Al!” Al turns away from the stall at the train station to see his brother charging towards him, scarlet coat billowing behind him in a bloody curtain. He half-suspects that the whole reason Ed chose that particular coat was to make himself look menacing. Or to compensate for his short stature. “ _There_ you are! I was _looking_ for you!”

Politely apologizing to the shopkeeper, Al grabs his purchase and turns to Ed. “I was just looking at the stalls. Some of the things looked tasty.”

“You could have _told_ me!” Ed snaps.

“You would have said ‘no’,” Al retorts, not for the first time. “And you were just buying tickets, anyway. I was only away for five minutes!”

Ed bristles. “Do you know how much can _happen_ in five minutes?!”

A low groan leaves Al and he bows his helmet in defeat. There’s really no point in arguing when Brother gets like this.

“You could get your helmet knocked off,” Ed rants, counting off on his fingers as he goes, “people would find out, and then—”

“—I could end up in a government lab somewhere, _I know_.” Al looks to the sky and searches for patience in the clouds.

Heedless of Al’s exasperation, Ed snags a gauntlet in one hand and starts dragging him across the platform, which is actually quite impressive considering how heavy Al’s steel body is. It’s also the sort of thing a parent might do for a child, but Al is not a child—not a _young_ child, anyway—and he certainly doesn’t appreciate being treated as such. “C’mon! The train’s about to leave—and _don’t_ leave my sight again!”

Sigh. “Yes, Brother.”

* * *

There are times when Al says “brother” and feels another word bubbling up beneath. It ignites a burning in his very being, makes his soul tremble against the iron confines of this makeshift vessel, and he suddenly feels as though he is standing dizzyingly on the cusp of remembering _something_ —

And then it passes, and he is left with a frustrating vacancy where he’s sure the truth lies.

When Al tries to express this to Ed, he is patted reassuringly on the gauntlet and Ed insists that it’ll all get better once Al has his real body back. When Al is irritated by how his memories seem to float vaguely on the surface of his mind, Ed responds that remembering isn’t something you can force. When Al wonders why he even _needs_ a flesh body, because he doesn’t really find a problem with what he has now, Ed glares at him and not-so-calmly demands to know if he’s lost his _mind_.

When Al responds that he doesn’t even  _remember_ his old body enough to miss it, Ed responds that _of course_ he misses it, and they’re _getting_ Al’s body back, and Al should _stop_ thinking such stupid thoughts.

Al stops talking to Ed about what he thinks and feels.

* * *

In Liore, Ed never outright condemns people like Rose for wanting the dead to come back. Al thinks he should, because death is death, a permanence that has existed since mankind first crawled upright and shook the dust off of them. But he never outright calls it impossible, never calls it a defilement of nature’s unbreakable laws.

Instead, Ed tells Rose, with a strange light in his eye, “If he’s been dead for a year, his soul has probably already moved on by now. It’s better if you just let him rest.”

Al wonders what that means for souls who _haven’t_ been dead for a year.

* * *

A new clarity is brought about by alchemy beneath his adopted fingertips, memories that were once so nebulous and undefined come into striking focus. With the crackle-snap of transmutation bubbles forth recollections of laughter, of carefree days spent on emerald hills and playing in the backyard with reckless abandon. He remembers fighting with his brother over chores (he never wins _any_ of them), remembers Mom scolding them, remembers—

He has a striking recollection of having frigid arms wrapped around him, clinging to something so tight he could feel another heartbeat against his own. Chills and fear and desperation, _it can’t end like this_ —

It clicks into place so firmly that it leaves him dizzy.

Later, when they are in another hotel in some far-off corner of the country, Al approaches his brother timidly. “Brother?”

Ed’s single upward-pointed lock is barely visible over the lip of the book. The only indication he gives that he’s heard Al is an absentminded, “Mm?”

Al hesitates, because they have never discussed anything about that night, but he plows ahead with stupid bravery he never knew he had. “Before the transmutation—”

Like someone flipped a switch, Ed looks up sharply, eyes widening. “Al—”

“—did I get sick?”

Beat.

Sheepishly, Al goes on, “I, er, remembered something. The last time I used alchemy? I think I had a fever, and I was scared, and...”

Another beat.

Just as the silence is stretching a little too long, Ed replies with a bright, “You had a _little_ fever, but that’s all. You were fine afterwards, so don’t worry about it—‘kay little brother?”

There’s something about Ed’s gaze—something sharp and hollow and frightfully intense. It instills a wariness in Al, something that makes him want to back away for some reason. He hesitates for too long, though, and just as he is about to ask for more details, Ed turns back to the book he’s reading and hunches his shoulders in a manner that signals the conversation is over.

Ed makes him stop performing alchemy after that.

* * *

When Ed reaffirms his vow again, after Nina is gone and Scar has retreated into the alley, Al finds it in himself to think about it. _Really_ think about it.

He thinks about what his body—the body they search for so desperately, running on empty hope and stubborn will, grinding themselves against the world until they come away as dust—might look like. There are all sorts of pictures at the Rockbells’, but for some reason, he has trouble picturing it.

* * *

“Brother?”

“Hm?”

“I’ve been thinking...”

“About what?”

“My memories.”

“You’re _always_ thinking about that.”

“Because it bothers me.”

“Don’t worry so much.”

“...but what if it means there’s something wrong with me?”

“There’s _nothing_ wrong with you, Al.”

“But—”

“There’s _nothing wrong with you_. Don’t _ever_ say that _again_.”

“...o...okay.”

* * *

“Do I seem different to you?” Al asks Winry. When she looks up from her work to blink at him, he hastily adds, “From before, I mean. Do I seem different from before?”

“You _both_ seem different,” Winry replies, which isn’t really an answer.

Remembering the _look_ in Ed’s eye—the burning ferocity of it—when he snapped at him, Al hunches his shoulders and asks, “Even Brother?”

“Even Ed.” She hesitates, her grip tightening around her screwdriver. “...especially Ed.”

She turns back to her work before he can inquire further.

* * *

“So someone _else_ managed to bind a soul to armor,” cackles the wicked person known as Barry the Chopper. Al is not entirely certain if this murderer can be called a “person”—whether because of the fact that he is a murderer or because he is bound to armor, Al is not entirely certain. But the very presence of this being makes his soul prickle with anxiety. “Who’d have thought! So, which whackjob scientist got their mitts on you?”

Al bristles. “My _brother_ is not a _whackjob scientist_ —he did it to _save my life_.”

The Chopper eyes him for a moment in a manner that Al cannot describe as anything but patronizing. “That right?”

“ _Yes_.”

“You sure about that?”

For some reason, Al hesitates before answering, “Of course.”

“‘Cause I mean, I’ve seen some of the other test subjects,” says the Chopper in a blithe, lively manner, as though they are discussing their favorite book genre and not people stuffed inside unfeeling metal shells. “And sometimes, I gotta wonder if they were even people. Y’know, before they were armor and all.”

If Al had a heartbeat, it would stop dead and cold, become an iron weight in his chest cavity. “W-What?”

“Like, see, when we’re transmuted—they put stuff in us.” The Chopper taps the temple of his bone-shaped helmet with the end of his cleaver. It makes a soft metallic chinking noise that is somehow deafening. “Instructions and such. Orders. Now, I’m no alchemist or anything, but I gotta wonder, y’know? Like, how much of what _we_ are is just information _they_ put in us.”

Something cold floods Al, cold and all-encompassing. He looks down at his massive leather hands, clumsy and inept, remembering all the blood that had covered them, red and thick, when Brother was bleeding all over him. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m just saying.” The Chopper’s voice is bright with a sadistic hint of glee, the soulfire glow in the eyeholes of his helmet burning brilliantly like kerosene lanterns. It makes Al shiver. “Memories are just information, right? How do you know your memories are _yours_?”

Because they are. Because they have to be. Because— Al’s hands clench and he glares at the condemned serial killer. “How do you know _your_ memories aren’t counterfeit?”

“Well, I mean, I don’t know for _sure_.” The serial killer tilts his helmet-head to one side and the maw on the visage leers at him, false mouth twisted into some gruesome resemblance of a grin. “But I figure, either these memories are mine or the guy who shoved me in here _really_ liked chopping people up. Can _you_ say the same thing?”

“I don’t like chopping people up,” Al retorts, avoiding the question. And then he charges, because he doesn’t want to hear anymore. ~~~~

* * *

At the hospital, Al finds a mirror in the bathroom.

He has never really scrutinized the visage of his helmet before. There’s never been a need—Brother has always insisted that this vessel was a temporary one, an ephemeral stepping stone that existed between the occurrence of human transmutation and the ultimate finale that will be them restoring their true flesh. As the years stretched on, Al never really wondered, never really got around to examining his appearance too fully.

There is a spike on the forehead, a long sweeping feather sprouting from the top. Things he knew already. The “mouth” is jagged, sharp and triangular like fangs. The chin juts out in a slightly cylindric shape. They say the eyes are the window to the soul, but the red light peering through the dark crevices of the helmet takes the expression literally, physical manifestations of the life trapped in this inanimate object.

 _Memories are just information, right?_ comes the Chopper’s taunting voice, playing at the threads of his mind like a harpist toying with their instrument. All deft fingers and pretty notes, shivers down your spine at the sound. _How do you know your memories are **yours**?_

Al concentrates _hard_. Thinks back to some memory of his own reflection, of a face that is undeniably his and existed before this living steel did. The face in the photos he keeps seeing pinned on the Rockbells’ bulletin board.

Something tingles in the back of his mind, a vague recollection. Mom telling them to brush their teeth before bed, twin chimes of agreement, two boys scampering into the bathroom. Two faces in the vanity mirror over the sink, golden-haired and golden-eyed.

“You’re hogging all the water again,” complains one voice.

“I’m not _hoggin’_ ,” retorts a voice he recognizes as his own. Or, the memory does, anyway. “Just wait your turn!”

“Since when do we take _turns_?”

Brush in mouth, toothpaste minty and wet against gums and tongue, bristles rough and scraping. “Shinsh I _shaid_ sho.”

“You’re horrible!”

Spit into the sink. “Lay off!”

When memory-Al raises his head again, the reflection reappears in the mirror—and every fiber of his being turns to ice.

The face the memory recognizes as his—

Is actually _Ed’s_.

There is a crack, and when Al jolts back to the present, he finds that the reflective glass has broken beneath his fingers. 

* * *

“Are you avoiding me or something?” Edward asks after Al has finally gathered up the courage to walk into the hospital room. Winry and Mr. Hughes politely excuse themselves so they can have privacy—he is very thankful for this fact.

 _So what if I am?_ “No, Brother, of course not.”

“...okay.” Edward’s brows furrow, and if Al didn’t know any better, he’d almost say that the alchemist’s expression is fraught with something akin to _worry_. But he does know better, and refuses to indulge it. “Something the matter, then?”

“No.” He glances over his massive, spiked shoulder out into the hall, where Lieutenant Ross and Sergeant Brosch are steadfastly stationed at the door, trying their best to remain inconspicuous and not eavesdrop on their conversation. He appreciates the effort, but it’s not enough. “I just wanted to be alone for a bit.”

Edward’s expression wavers uncertainly. Gosh, he’s such a brilliant actor, the worry on his face nearly genuine in its intensity. “Al, I...”

Al has a sudden memory—the vivid redness of Edward’s blood painting his hands as his little body writhed helplessly against pain and fear. If he had squeezed too tight, then, he could have simply crushed the alchemist in his hands. He was strong enough to do so, often forgot how to hold himself back. No one would have questioned it. An accident.

An accident.

“I hear the roof has a nice view,” Al says pleasantly. It belies the black rage roiling inside him. “Meet me there?”

A flicker of something goes across Edward’s face, and he inexplicably relaxes. “Yeah, uh, sure.”

Al is already turning away and walking out into the hall. If he lingers too long in that room, he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

* * *

The skyline of Central City is a true marvel, all glittering metal and industrialization, skyscrapers that tower in their desperation to rise above their station. Mankind’s personal accomplishments, constructions of metal and stone that can trump the sky, can stab the heavens.

There is a story about a tower called Babel that was made by mankind. They were trying to reach heaven by physical means, or so the story goes. But the gods struck the tower down and man was punished for their hubris. The ending varies from version to version, but it is always severe, always a reminder that those who play god are to be broken and shattered.

Al wonders, then, why Edward Elric got off so light.

“It’s drafty up here,” observes the boy who played god. His automail gleams blindingly in the harsh sunlight—and maybe he is not _whole_ anymore, but he still _stands upright_. His eyes are fractured but still in-tact. Whatever god decides on such punishments needs to rethink their methods.

“If you say so.” Al cannot feel it. He is metal, a living doll. “Say, Brother—do you remember the photos on Granny’s wall?”

Leaning over the edge, the wind makes Edward’s bangs flutter, concealing his face. “The ones of us when we were little?”

He says “we” so _casually._ Al wants to _scream_.

Instead, he says, “Yes. The ones with you and Winry. And Alphonse Elric.”

This makes Edward glance up and give him that funny look, the one that usually appears before he flat-out calls Al crazy.

“Is he real?” Al asks, casually. He suspects he is, because the memories are coming a little clearer now, and he can distinctly recollect playing little games out in the fields and studying alchemy together and another face next to his, one that matches the colorful images on Pinako’s bulletin board. Golden hair and golden eyes.

But those are not _his_ memories. And he cannot say for certain that they are not just fabrications, fantasies meant to fill the void. The boy in the photo could be someone else entirely—a childhood friend superimposed upon the desired place.

“What are you _talking_ about?” More than angry, Edward looks unnerved by the suggestion. “Al, are you feeling o—”

“I know the truth.”

“—kay...?” Edward blinks dumbly. “What?”

“I know,” he says, taking a single, clanking step forward, “that I’m not Alphonse Elric.”

“ _What_?” Edward repeats, eyes widening. He looks almost horrified by this statement—Al supposes it would be rather alarming, to find the secret you’ve been trying so hard to keep suddenly laid bare before you.

Another slow, clanking step. So strange how Edward doesn’t move away, doesn’t seem to realize what Al is capable of, in this insanely strong body. “Your brother got sick, didn’t he? And it wasn’t just a fever—he died.”

A tremor goes through Edward Elric, but he does not move, eyes wide. _Deer in headlights_ , Al thinks wryly. “Al.”

“And it wasn’t your mother you tried to bring back that night.”

The color leaves Edward’s face quite suddenly. “Al—”

“Maybe you were planning to do it, in the first place.” The memories of late nights in the study and alchemy books over candlelight flickers through his mind. Sitting before the gravestone, growing cold as the sun sets, grief and mourning and more fear than a child knows how to cope with. “But then your brother died. And you did the only thing you could think of. Isn’t that right?”

Finally, Edward dares to move. He turns fully, and Al notes with some satisfaction that the alchemist’s hands are shaking slightly.

He inclines his helmet, thinking about how Edward had bled that night, swift and urgent and terribly _red._ Why had he felt such desperation to save his life, that night? Probably another implanted thing, another artificial emotion. “But I guess it didn’t work, so instead you decided to do the next best thing. You made a replacement. Isn’t that right, Brother?”

“That—” Edward starts brokenly, eyes owlishly wide, “That’s not—”

“Or should I call you ‘creator’?”

“No,” Edward whispers. His shoulders shake.

It feels like liberation to say the word that has been stuck in his soul all this time. He steps forward again and it occurs to him, quite suddenly, just how much he towers over the alchemist. That is Edward’s mistake, for placing his soul in such a massive container. “You made a fake soul using your own memories. And you could get away with it, too, because you were always together. No one would second-guess it if there were a few little gaps.”

“Stop it.”

“But I guess you couldn’t get the body quite right. Those are pretty complicated, aren’t they? I bet _that’s_ how you lost your limbs.”

“S-Stop...”

“And without a body, the only thing you could do was anchor this fake soul to a fake body. Is that what happened?”

“Al.” Edward’s voice cracks, sharp and hoarse. “ _Please_.”

Feeling oddly detached, Not-Al regards his creator. How did he ever muster up any affection towards the alchemist before? All he can manage now is cold disgust, if that. “Deny it, then, if it’s not true.”

“Of course it’s not!” Edward shouts, his voice reaching a breaking octave. “That’s _not_ what happened!”

Ignoring him, Not-Al goes on. “The only thing that doesn’t make sense to me is why you’d go through all the trouble—the Philosopher’s Stone and such—for a fake.”

“YOU’RE NOT A FAKE!”

The cry erupts through the air in a rough, shattering outburst. It reverberates long after it fades, thrums in the air between them like the heartbeat of some divine being intent on taking delight in their misery. Not-Al watches in bewilderment as Edward trembles where he stands, his shoulders his hunched and his head tilted downward so that his bangs cast dark shadows over his face. At his sides, his flesh and steel hands alike tremble as they curl into fists.

By all accounts, this is a genuine display of distress. Not-Al doesn’t understand.

“You’re not a fake,” Edward repeats, softer now but no less rough and throaty. When he looks up again, there is something in his eyes—something wild and dizzying, a burning light that makes his golden irises glow hauntingly. “You’re my brother. You’re my little brother. Don’t— Don’t ever— I— _Brought you back_ —”

...what?

“You were gone.” Edward steps forward, and Not-Al has a sudden urge to jerk back, an irrational fear rising in him. “I w-woke up and you were _gone_ and— a-and I tried to f-finish the calculations _quickly_ — I t-tried, Al, I _really fucking_ _tried_ —”

He doesn’t understand.

Edward reaches out and takes one of Not-Al’s large leather hands into his own. There is something about the way he grips the leather fingers, something that makes him squeeze much harder than necessary. “I couldn’t save your body. I’m _sorry_ — I—I took too long— I’m _sorry_ , Al, I’m so _sorry—_ I fucked up, it’s _my fault_ — I—I’ll get you a _new one_ —”

It’s that same look, Not-Al realizes. That same look as when he first awakened after his incarnation into this steel body. That wildness, that desperation—something so intense and brimming that it’s unnerving to look at directly. It’s the possessiveness that rears its head when they are separated for too long, the fury that snarls when Not-Al has suggested there was some flaw in his design, the feverish way Edward throws himself into the Philosopher’s Stone, the desperation with which he renews his vows over and over and over. It’s all these things and yet so much _more_.

“—but I saved your soul!” Edward goes on. There is pride in how he says this, a naive sort, something infantile and malleable. A guileless glee that illuminates his face, a not-quite smile flickering just for a fraction of a moment—like the sun peeking out beneath the cloud cover to blind you for a split second. “I knew—I knew you were _alive_ in there— You were _breathing—_  but the _body_ —the _body_ was all fucked up— But I _saved_ you! I brought you _back_.”

Not-Al has seen its many facets, but only now is he staring at the heart of it, in all its naked glory. It repulses him so deeply that he has a sudden urge to snatch his hand away. “I’m not your brother.”

“Of course you are!” Edward’s grip on his hand tightens, pulls him closer. One arm—the automail arm—comes out to wrap itself around the gauntlet, metal fingers running along the steel plating in an almost tender manner. His eyes are glazed. “ _Of_ _course you are_. You’re my little brother. You’re _Alphonse_.”

When Not-Al looks at his creator’s eyes, he sees that they are misted over. They are not even looking at him, looking past him, at someone who isn’t even here. “...Edward.”

“You’re Alphonse,” repeats Edward, as though the mere act of saying it can make it so. He runs both hands over the gauntlet now, petting them obsessively, and there is something like desperation flickering in the corner of his gaze. “You’re my _brother_. Who _else_ would you be?”

All at once, he understands.

“I’ll get you a real body. I’ll get it right this time. I _promise._ I will. And— And you’ll be able to sleep and eat just like you used to! I bet you miss sleep, right? Of course you do.”

It wasn’t fake.

“We’ll find another way. We— The Philosopher’s Stone— We’ll keep it as a last resort, for now. We’ll find _another_ way. I promise, Al. I _promise.”_

It just wasn’t real, either.

“You’re my little brother,” Edward rambles mindlessly. “I’d do _anything_ for you. You know that, right?”

And it seems his creator didn’t come out as unscathed as he originally thought.

“...I know.”

At the confirmation, Edward’s face lights up brilliantly. The smile on his creator’s face is so gruesomely out of place, especially after having grown so used to scowls and frowns of annoyance over the years—over his entire lifetime, now that he thinks about it. But the sight of this, this bright, glazed expression suddenly has him wishing he had a stomach so he could retch.

“You’re right.” Pity moves in to replace his earlier revulsion. He does not flinch away as Edward moves closer, closer, closer. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that.”

“It’s okay, Al.” Edward unhooks his hands from the gauntlet and instead wraps them around the steel torso, burying his face against the chest plate. Then, as if to truly affirm his beliefs, he repeats, “You’re my little brother.”

“I know.”

Edward Elric does not react when his creation places a massive hand on the back of his neck.

“I know you probably believe that.”

* * *

Maes Hughes finds an empty suit of armor sitting cross-legged atop the roof. The helmet is discarded to one side, the eyeholes dark and empty of what was once a soulfire light. Shards of metal circle the scene loosely, almost ceremonially, each one painted with a line of congealed blood. A chunk has been taken out of the back of the cuirass, right on the rim.

Cradled in the armor’s other arm in an almost protective manner, as a parent might a child, Edward Elric’s neck is bent at an awkward angle, hanging so limp and unnatural that Maes immediately feels sick. From the look of vague surprise on the boy’s face, it appears he never expected it, never saw it coming.

The light of delusion still glitters in half-lidded, glassy eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> What is it with me and writing disturbing shit lately? I've been rereading the manga and then I came up with this idea on Friday. Being me, I could not leave it alone—and here we are.
> 
> Fucking hell, it is only three days past Halloween. I should be doing the same thing as everybody else and moving on to the next holiday already.


End file.
